She leaned over to thank him with a kiss, which soon led to several more. Then he taught her a new way to make love, tugging her astride him in his lap. When they finished, she sat on his lap, cuddled close, happy and content.
“The war will end soon, mi bellissima. When it does, we will rebuild Bacio Belladonna, better and stronger than before.”
“My father is slipping away much as the life we lived before is gone.” Bella waved toward the gossamer edge of a fluffy cloud.
“Yes. But the new life we will create together will be just as beautiful, in time.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek and stood, offering her his hand. Bella smiled up at him, imprinting the most joyous moment of her life, her handsome Paolo, silhouetted against their vineyard and the wide, Tuscan sky. For the first time, in many, many months, she felt hopeful, joyful, alive and bubbling with the possibilities for the future. She slipped her hand into his broad palm and stood, embracing him, allowing herself to savor the absolute joy bubbling through her.
And then, the earth trembled beneath her feet. She lifted her head from Paolo’s shoulder, as the rumble of jeeps and trucks reached them. Puzzled, she leaned back to see his face.
“Did you bring more . . .?”
Lucy
Tuscany, Italy
Present Day
“Look, Jack! A rainbow,” Lucy blurted, pointing at the colorful arc peeking through the clouds above the withering vineyards. “Nonna knows we’re here.”
“What happened to my cynical Lucy?” Jack laughed as he pulled into a tiny petrol station. “I’m afraid we’re lost again. Be right back.”
“Maybe I’m changing,” she whispered, as the door slammed shut. They’d spent days searching records, talking to locals, but no one knew of a Paolo LaRosa from Ali d’Angelo. Whatever happened at the town, afterwards, the townsfolk scattered to the winds and never rebuilt. Many people remembered the Rossis and their daughters, Belladonna and Ava. But no LaRosas. No Paolos.
Jack shook hands with the petrol station attendant and waved before climbing back in the car with Lucy. “Any luck?”
“All I know is I’m supposed to turn right at the next fork in the road.”
Lucy ran her hands through her hair and tugged. “Why is this so damn hard?”
“Hey, we’ll figure it out.” Jack leaned over for a quick peck on the lips, a casual gesture of affection more suited to a long married couple. As he put the tiny rented Fiat into reverse, Lucy pressed her fingers over her lips. They’d fallen into comfortable companionship, highlighted by long nights of intense passion together. She would miss him back home. Jack patted her knee and she pushed thoughts about the future away. She needed to learn to live in the moment. “Why don’t you relax a bit? Listen to some music or something? We’ve a ways to go to check out this next lead.”
“I feel like we’re pushing against this immovable boulder. Why didn’t Nonna just leave clear instructions?”
“Not how quests work, my darling.” Lucy leaned her head back on the seat, as the gorgeous countryside flashed past. Some clue dangled, just beyond her conscious mind, maddeningly out of reach, like a word on the tip of her tongue. They cruised through a tiny town. A group of children dangled and swung from the monkey bars, as nearby an old stooped gardener with a wide brimmed hat, tucked bulbs into a window box to bloom next spring. The children laughed and played, oblivious to his hard work, that he’d once had a life and thoughts and dreams of his own. Just as she’d been with Nonna.
“Why didn’t Nonna tell me this when she was alive? Whatever this is?” Lucy burst out, ripping the earbuds out of her ears. “I could have asked her questions, even brought her here.”
“I think that’s why she didn’t,” Jack said, twining his fingers with hers.
“All my life, I wished Nonna was my mother. She was my best friend . . . .I could tell her anything and now . . . now she’s gone . . . and she left me this task that I can’t seem to complete for her.” Lucy closed her eyes, wiping at the moisture there.
“Hey, we’ll figure this out. Nonna loved you.” Jack pressed his lips to the back of her hand before prying his hand free to drive the car. He swung off to the side of the road, overlooking a burbling stream and a picturesque stone bridge. “Let’s take a break. Some lunch will help.”
After they ate, Jack crunched an apple while she walked down to the stream to rinse her hands. She carried a stone back to show him. She leaned over, brushing a kiss over Jack’s lips, enjoying the sweet taste of apple as she explored his mouth. He cupped the back of her head, kissing her breathless. Lucy smiled at him, enjoying the pretty day and the simple pleasure of being together. She sat next to him and held out the rock.
“Look, it’s shaped like a turtle.”
“I don’t see a turtle. Just an oval rock.” Jack smiled. “You’re so creative, Luce. Always have been. Remember all those crazy tales you’d come up with when we were kids?”
“I found one I’d written out a while ago, complete with terrible illustrations. It involved a dragon guarding a pyramid and he could only communicate with speech bubbles.”
“Sounds like one of the boys’ comic books.” Jack smiled. “Maybe you could be a writer?”
Lucy shook her head. “I don’t think so. I always liked cooking and crafting and . . . well, those things are hard to make a career out of, you know?”
“I get it. I should have bucked the old man and gotten my history degrees. But . . .”
“You went to law school to have something to fall back on?” Jack barked out a laugh and nodded. Lucy continued, “Besides, your grandfather and your dad would both have killed you if you didn’t join Hamilton & Hamilton.”
“My grandfather—most definitely. But my dad . . . he might have understood. A couple months ago, I went to get something out of his file cabinet and found all these legal pads, with handwritten pages for a legal thriller on it. Maybe he didn’t want to be a lawyer any more than I did.”
“What would you do instead?”
“I do pro bono work at Sunset Manor and . . . I love to listen to their stories. I keep thinking I should write them down. Like an oral history project. My friends Don and Owen fought in Korea but no one’s thought to record their stories.”
“You could do that, Jack.” He shrugged. They tidied their picnic. Before they climbed back in the car, Lucy pulled Jack against her, winding her arms around his neck. She cupped the back of his head and pulled him down for a deep kiss. Jack tasted of apples and the fizzy lemonade he’d drank for lunch. He slipped his warm hand down her back, pulling her tight against him. A passing car honked at them and they jumped apart like guilty teenagers. How would she ever give Jack up when they went home to their normal lives?
Belladonna
Ali d’Angelo, Italy
1944
For the rest of her life, whenever she thought of that day, remembered those blissful stolen moments in the caves with Paolo, Bella always felt she should have known better. Such bliss always tempts fate. Joy that complete and total could never be sustained. The heavy hand of fate finally arrived at Ali d’Angelo that day.
Standing together, in the shadowy dark of the caves, the heavy rumble of laden trucks vibrated through Paolo and Bella as they wound their way up the mountain road, shaking the ground as they climbed toward the little village in the clouds. For four long years now, they’d all seen the ugly, squat jeeps and military convoys trundling down roads and heard the buzzing airplanes overhead. No one other than Paolo’s squadron ever entered Ali d’Angelo.
With only a brief, quick kiss, Paolo dashed toward the village square. Bella paused to grab trousers and a shirt from the hodgepodge of clothing stored in the caves for when the villagers took shelter from the pounding Allied bombs. She hastily donned rough chestnut colored trousers and a too big white button-down shirt. She grabbed her bug-out bag, figuring she’d put her shoes on later before following Paolo toward the center of the village, her still bare feet slipping on the dirt road. B
ella ran for the square, assuming Paolo’s men brought more treasures to stash away in the caverns or perhaps the military maps failed and gotten a friendly convoy lost.
A scarlet flag, with its horrible black spider swirl, flapped on the back of a jeep. Her stomach cramped and her lungs tightened as she skidded to a stop. Nazis? Here, in Ali d’Angelo?
For over a year, as the Germans retreated, the countryside became a war zone. She’d heard tales, whispered by the old women left in the town of horrors and atrocities committed under that scarlet banner. No doubt, Babbo and Matteo would already be captured. Thankfully, Paolo wasn’t in uniform but still . . .
Bella turned and ran for the hills, into the woods, desperate to avoid capture. She struggled to think of some way to free Paolo, Babbo, and Matteo. She couldn’t go towards the caves and lead the Germans to their secret cache. Instead, she dashed into the forest, her heart thumping against her chest, twigs and pinecones catching at her bare feet and ankles as she sucked the cedar scented air into her burning lungs. Having lived there her entire life, she disappeared easily. She didn’t think any of the soliders noticed her.
When she felt certain she was not being followed, she climbed to the tiny grove where Tommaso proposed to her. That long ago day seemed a century ago. She lay on her belly, hidden by the thick cedar trees, cushioned by their fallen leaves, and surrounded by the comforting scent. After her pounding heart slowed and she could no longer hear her pursuers, she crept through the leaves on her belly through the soft ground until she could spy on the square.
The relentless German troops went house to house, corralling everyone left in the village into the square. The Germans laughed and chatted together, in their odd language that always sounded to Bella like barking. They forced everyone to sit waiting in the square, cross-legged in the hot sun all day. The Germans paced around the village, helping themselves to the meager food supplies and lounging around the splashing fountain in the center of the square.
Her wizened father, young Matteo at his side, huddled against the wall of the church. Farther down the line, Paolo sat, his back against the church, his sky blue shirt drawing her eye. Thank God, he wore civilian clothing. She shuddered to think what the Germans would have done if they realized they had an American soldier in their midst. The men sat on one side, the women and young children on the other. Why hadn’t they run, crept deeper in the caves to hide amongst the treasures, or into the woods?
For all that long, hot day, with the brutal Toscana summer sun beating down, the entire town waited poised on the knife edge of disaster, as Bella stayed hidden, huddled atop the overlook. Just after twilight painted the sky indigo, as the moon rose and the stars twinkled on in the velvet sky, the Germans herded the men and young boys into the small church, ignoring the women and the youngest children.
At the door of the sacristy, Father Torricelli, the moonlight turning his snow-white hair blue, resisted their captors, putting forth an argument Bella couldn’t hear. He’d married her parents, baptized both Bella and her sister, and distributed sweets at every Christmas Mass to the children. As Bella peeked over the large rock she’d sat on when Tommaso proposed, fear tasting like acid in her mouth, two soldiers knocked the kindly priest to the ground. They beat him with the butts of their rifles, until wine dark blood poured from his temple and his twitching body stilled.
The German soldiers grabbed their rifles and entered the church. Shots echoed through the night. Babbo. Matteo. Paolo. Bella bit her lip, tasting blood, to keep from crying out. Laughing, the soldiers strode back out and, after splashing gasoline on the church, set fire to the village, before driving away.
In shock, Bella watched as the fire devoured the village, painting the sky with scarlet and orange ribbons and thick smoke. Flames rose into the sky, painting the quiet Tuscan night like a scene from hell as fire leapt from roof to roof. Ashes floated into the sky only to drift back down like angel wings. When the fire lapped at the dry grass near the hill, Bella grabbed her bag and fled.
Lucy
Tuscany, Italy
Present Day
“This has to be it,” Lucy said with far more confidence than she felt. They’d been searching for three days. It was Thursday afternoon and Jack left on Sunday night. Then Lucy would be on her own.
“Don’t get your hopes up. If this isn’t it, we’ll hire a PI.”
“I can’t let you do that for me.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way but it’s not for you. I’d do it for Nonna,” Jack said and squeezed her hand. “I feel like we owe it to her to keep trying.”
“Okay, but this has to be it,” Lucy said with forced cheer. Jack laughed as he steered their tiny rental car along the rutted road to a village not far from Florence, in the opposite direction from Ali d’Angelo. They bumped their way along the roads, stopping only twice to ask for directions and found themselves in a good sized town, full of shoppers bustling about and crimson and white pennants flapping under a perfect blue sky. They walked around the village square for a few moments until they came upon a small cafe.
“Shall we try here?” Jack gestured to it.
“Caffe Amore Eterno,” Lucy read. “Does that mean—?”
“I think it’s loosely translated to Forever Love Cafe.” Jack answered, his brow furrowing.
“Is that like the Last Chance Saloon?” Lucy laughed as they walked in.
An Italian man a few years younger than them—about thirty-five—glanced up from behind the bar. Jenny and Barb encouraged her to indulge in a wild, hot fling when she was in Italy, this was the type of man they’d meant. He had skin the color of cafe au lait and hair the color of finest chocolate, messily arranged in what was no doubt meant to look easy but actually took time. With his slanted bedroom eyes and pouty mouth, sex appeal poured off him in waves—if she could bottle it, she’d make a fortune.
But, she felt not the slightest hint of attraction. Nothing. Jack took her hand and goosebumps trailed up her arm. She wanted Jack. She just needed to come all the way here to see it.
And she would have to give him up when she returned.
“Did you get separated from your tour group?” The man asked, in a heavy accent. “With the chestnut festival, there are many groups. They usually meet in the square.”
“No, we’re not with a group,” Jack said before ordering two cappuccinos.
“We’re looking for someone,” Lucy said, sensing something significant was about to happen. She could almost feel Nonna in the room with them.
The man behind the bar inclined his head, his eyes watchful and wary. “Who are you seeking?”
“Paolo LaRosa.”
“I am Mario LaRosa.” Jack and Lucy beamed at each other, relief and excitement pouring through them. “Who are you?”
“My name is Lucy Parker and this is Jack Hamilton. My grandmother knew Paolo from Ali d’Angelo.” The second she said it, she knew she’d made a grave mistake.
“My grandfather does not speak of Ali d’Angelo.” Mario turned away from them to busy himself with the cups behind the bar. He brought two cups of cappuccinos to them, the foam gray in the afternoon light.
“Mario, please, my Nonna asked me to bring a message from her to Paolo.”
“No. My Nonno is old. I cannot upset him. He is family,” Mario said, his lips pressing into a firm line.
“Mr. LaRosa, it’s obvious Paolo is known in this town. I’m sure we could ask around and find him easily. Perhaps it would be easier if you introduced us to him. Less of a shock,” Jack said, steel underlying the affability in his voice. That tone of voice probably got him whatever he wanted in a courtroom and made him a good lawyer. “We’ve been searching for him all week.”
Mario’s eyes darkened. Lucy, struck with a sudden inspiration, removed the angel locket from around her neck and placed it in Mario’s palm.
“Could you take this to him? We’ll wait here. If he wants to see us, we will meet with him here. If he doesn’t, we’ll go away quietly
.”
Up to you, Nonna. Help us out here.
Mario gazed at the locket in his hand for a long time before opening the clasp. When he saw the miniature inside, he gasped and glanced back up at Lucy’s face. So she’d been right. It was Paolo, not Tony, as she’d always assumed. He nodded once and called for another worker. He spoke to him in rapid Italian and left out the back door.
“Let’s order, shall we? It could be a bit,” Jack suggested. They’d gotten used to the Italian’s more leisurely way of approaching life this week, something Lucy hoped she could remember when she went home to Boston. Lucy had just bitten into her panini Caprese when the back door of the restaurant opened again. At first, due to the bright, streaming sunlight, she couldn’t see the figure silhouetted in the door.
Mario took a few steps in, followed by a stooped, shuffling man. Mario gestured to them and the older man walked to their small table and lowered himself gingerly to a chair. One side of his face had the taut, shiny look of old burns and ropy scars snaked down under his collar. Under his full head of shockingly white hair, his eyes were sharp with intelligence. He glanced first at Jack and then to Lucy. His gray-blue eyes filled with tears.
“Belladonna sent you,” the man said, in heavily accented English. “You look just like her.”
“Yes, she sent us,” Lucy nodded. “I’m Lucy. Belladonna Rossi Castillo was my grandmother.”
Lucy reached into her bag, handing Paolo the flat parcel she’d carried from Boston. He tore open the brown paper and the bubble wrap beneath to reveal the Madonna of the Orange Blossoms painting. He blinked at it, his eyes filling with tears.
“The diNovo. The missing painting! I wondered if Belladonna might have it.” Paolo swallowed. “I am overjoyed to have such a treasure returned to us. This painting hung in the Ladies’ Chapel in the church of Ali d’Angelo, painted by one of the masters of the Renaissance. You will have never heard of him as he died far too young.” Paolo paused and then grinned, his gray eyes still watery. “Forgive me, you did not travel all this way for an art lesson . . . such a treasure returned to us, at last. I just hoped my treasure would return with it. So, you are Belladonna’s granddaughter, the daughter of her only child?”
The Lost Art of Second Chances Page 9